


For All Evils

by rynthewin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark!Hermione, F/M, Incest, New Orleans, Past Rape Mention, also getting to write about my former home, is nice, southern gothic tomione, the gaunts fit so well into a southern gothic stereotype and i love it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 12:20:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9820331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rynthewin/pseuds/rynthewin
Summary: Maria Granger, three months after Hermione’s birth, commits suicide due to giving birth to the child of the man who assaulted her. Hermione has two suspects for her biological father--Morfin Gaunt or Tom Riddle Senior, though the later is the most likely. After the death of her father, Hermione decides to find her most likely half-brother, the abandoned son of Tom Riddle Sr. and Merope Gaunt, in New Orleans to hatch a vengeance plot to bring down both the Gaunt and Riddle families.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Summary: Maria Granger, three months after Hermione’s birth, commits suicide due to giving birth to the child of the man who assaulted her. Hermione has two suspects for her biological father--Morfin Gaunt or Tom Riddle Senior, though the later is the most likely. After the death of her father, Hermione decides to find her most likely half-brother, the abandoned son of Tom Riddle Sr. and Merope Gaunt, in New Orleans to hatch a vengeance plot to bring down both the Gaunt and Riddle families. 
> 
> Trigger warnings: sexual assault (not of Hermione--not described put a past event) is a major part of the plot and the impetus for revenge. Incest later on is also a thing.

Daddy is dead and I am alone.

I watched him die for years but only now does Little Hangleton join me, the priest giving blessings as my father’s casket is put in the tomb. The water table is too high to bury him—with the next rain he and his casket would float right back into town—but I know he’d would have rather had he and mama buried in the good earth. The names were temporarily not able to be seen as men my father had doctored for decades put his dead body away. But I knew as if it had been burned on the surface of my eyes--

_Paul Robert Lee Granger_

_(1878 - 1923)_

_Beloved father, gifted healer, faithful follower of God_

The priest dabbed the beads of sweat off of forehead, his robes as sweat-stained as everyone else’s clothes were. It was late June, and the humidity was like being in a pot of boiling water. “Almighty and ever-living God, in you we place our trust—"

_Katherine Jude Tregre Granger_

_(1885 - 1906)_

_Loving mother, devoted wife, sister in Christ_

“—and hope, in you the dead whose bodies were temples of the Spirit find everlasting peace—"

_I believe in no God, Father, not when with a few quick words I can walk on water, restore sight to the blind, and even wake the dead—though not quite as they were._

“—As we take leave of our brother, give our hearts peace—"

_I will have no peace. There is, sadly, no God to grant me his mercy._

_If there is no God, then it is up to me to make Heaven. And, thusly, I must also make Hell._

“—in the firm hope that one day Paul will live in the mansion you have prepared for him in heaven—"

_I will never see my daddy again. I will never know my mother. And it is_ all _the fault of that man._

“We ask this through the Christ our Lord. Amen."

“Amen,” I repeated, and I hated myself the weak choke that came out along with the word.


	2. Chapter 2

Nothing brings a small town together like a funeral. People who may have had not a good word to say about the dead will show up, kerchiefs out and dabbing at their eyes. Hypocrisy at its finest. Certainly everyone came out today—even Morfin and Marvolo Gaunt, who could see the cemetery from their shack in the bayou, had their faces turned towards town.

I was surrounded by a gaggle of sympathetic, worried women. What was an eighteen-year-old girl, fresh from boarding school, to do all alone? Mrs. Madden—who had made the big pot of red beans and rice for me on Monday along with her own—was to my right. To my left was Mrs. Broussard, who had made me a casserole of some sort (what did anything taste like anymore?), was to my left. They both had the same shade of dusty brown hair as I and could have passed as my aunts—and besides their names, husbands, and children, they were completely interchangeable. Next to Mrs. Broussard was Lydia, her daughter, only a few years older than me and with two children of her own, who was learning that measure of fake sympathy. 

And next to Mrs. Madden, far too close to me, was Mrs. Cecilia Riddle—the best dressed of the group, perhaps the only sympathetic woman there, and by far the most disliked of any of the ladies present.

“Oh, you come to us if you need _anything,_ ” said Cecilia. “Tom and I had just been talking the other day about what a good doctor your daddy was—so sudden, to lose him."

_I’d rather die, homeless and starved, than accept any aid from Tom Riddle._

“Thank you, Mrs. Riddle,” I lied, my small smile as fake as most everyone’s tears. But at least I had good reason for my smiles to not ring true.

The womenfolk had reached me first, the men giving their prayers over the tomb, talking quietly amongst each other, and thanking the priest. However, they soon wandered over to their wives—making me the center of a quickly much larger growing crowd.

“Susan and I agree. If it weren’t for Dr. Granger, Lydia have died ten years ago,” said Mr. Broussard. “Good doctor, that man."

I nodded, similar words of support offered to me, and accepted them as graciously as I could muster. The air was so thick with humidity that it was hard to breathe--

“Really, Hermione, our family is always willing to help you however you need,” said Tom Riddle, the familiar tone turning me away from the priest coming over to me.

Figures he’d be the last to offer his condolences, considering it was his fault my whole family was in that tomb not even ten feet away. 


	3. Chapter 3

I turned to him and, in between one blink and the next, the image of me pushing Tom Riddle to the ground appeared, his wife Cecilia too surprised to stop me as I kicked the greying temple of his dark head, his nose, his worry-lined wrinkled face (too old, too old for a man just over forty) till there was blood, hotter than even the humid swamp air, over my shoes, my stockings, the hem of my black dress. 

And then I knew the moment I gave the kick that killed him, and my stomach was filled with heated, roiling _victory_. Finally, I’d put this damn man in the tomb, where he belonged—!

But then the moment passed, and I was just a girl standing in the town cemetery with the town’s richest man—disliked for snobbery but otherwise not suspected of anything at all—giving me a smile and offering his sympathies.

“Why don’t Cecilia and I give you a ride back home in the car?” he asked. At the cemetery entrance was a black Model T, a luxury none of us could scarce imagine affording—even Daddy and I, and we’d done fairly well. “Upset as you are, you don’t need to be walkin’ nowhere."

 _Upset?_ I was so surprised that I touched my face—and found it wet. I hadn’t even noticed when I had began crying. Cecilia said something in agreement but I barely heard her, or the other locals agreeing it might be a good idea.

“No, I think the walk will help me settle, but I much appreciate the offer,” I said. Tom Riddle wouldn’t get me to set foot in his car unless he was driving my dead body to the morgue or the cemetery. And, to avoid any further arguing on the matter, I turned to the Madden family, the many small children like a barrier against the unwanted helpfulness from the Riddles.

No one really protested me not going with them. That was one advantage I did have—no one in town liked the carpetbaggers and the Yankee wives they have brought in since they bought the run-down Gaunt Plantation after the war and made a killing ever after. Tom Riddle, born and bred in Louisiana as much as the rest of us, but his pedigree tainted all relationships he had with the locals.

That and an indiscretion early in his youth in which he eloped with Merope Gaunt—and returned without her, raving about witchcraft and a monster child he’d have no part of.


End file.
